


Against All Odds and All Reason

by LaShaRa



Series: Meeting The Family [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Crossover, Family, Fluff, Humour, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Meet the Family, Multi, Rescues, The Holmes Boys, the holmes brothers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 21:43:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20160553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaShaRa/pseuds/LaShaRa
Summary: Not for the first time, Greg Lestrade stands outside 221 Baker Street and feels supremely out of his depth. Not for the first time, he glances down the road and glimpses a sleek black car turning out of sight.A follow up to The Holmes Brothers Do Not Come To Play





	Against All Odds and All Reason

**Author's Note:**

> And so it continues! Everyone is just so badass. Especially Mycroft. This family is crazy but they look out for their own. Thank you to everyone who's reading, leaving kudos and commenting on this series, y'all are amazing and it's encouraging me to post way more often than usual, to the detriment of everything else. IT WORKS! So enjoy.

It’s a bright, blue-skied Sunday morning, and yet Greg Lestrade is stuck at Baker Street. 

So is Mycroft Holmes. 

Greg is sitting at the kitchen table, pretending to listen to John patter cheerfully on about the footie as he fixes tea when really it’s all he can do not to keep glancing into the living room, where the two Holmes brothers are engaged in yet another Basilisk-eyed staring contest. 

(He’s read all the sodding books, all right? And they’re bloody good, so Anderson can piss off with his jokes. Anyway, John agrees wholeheartedly with the comparison, even if he declares that it has to be marginally easier to feed a huge magical serpent than Sherlock). 

Mycroft has a manila folder in his lap. Sherlock is pretending neither it nor Mycroft exist. Mycroft sighs. The pressed folds of his pinstriped three-piece suit grow even sharper. Greg tries not find him maddeningly attractive, fails spectacularly and hates himself. Stop, he monologues silently. Mycroft would know.  _ Sherlock would know.  _ And then he’d have to resign and move to France. 

John plonks a steaming mug of tea down in front of him and Lestrade clutches it close. His own file lies on the table, containing the case that had originally driven him to Baker Street. Sherlock had glanced at it and yelled,  _ “Dull!”,  _ turned to find Mycroft in the doorway and bellowed “MENACE!” and that had led to Greg squirming in his chair like a preschooler with a crush on his teacher. Or...something less awkward. Across from him, John sips his tea and hums in utter contentment.  _ We’re all mad here _ , Greg says to himself. All mad.

Mycroft’s phone rings, a shrill, piercing tone. John and Greg both startle a little; Mycroft is usually accompanied by the soft vibration of Anthea’s texts, not anything as mundane as  _ ringtones.  _ Mycroft extracts the phone and answers, face going from mildly exasperated to blank in half a second as he listens. 

And then he stands straight up, spine rigid, manila folder dropping to the floor. Sherlock stumbles out of his own chair and opens his mouth, but Mycroft holds up a hand. It’s a brusque, economic gesture, but there’s something hard about his face, something that brooks no argument whatsoever, and Greg is reminded that despite the posturing and the bickering and the posh suits, this is a very dangerous man, because Sherlock actually  _ stops _ . Greg puts his tea down and locks away the attraction of a minute ago. Across the table, John already has that look that Greg’s seen countless times when Sherlock’s about to ambush a murderer or dismantle an explosive or bait Mrs. Hudson: completely and utterly alert, ready at a second’s notice to react to the threat. 

“I’m en route,” says Mycroft, and ends the call. His voice is as flat as Greg’s ever heard it, but Sherlock’s fists clench at his sides and John is moving towards them now, reaching for Sherlock even as Mycroft says, “Stay here. No arguments, Sherlock. I will keep you apprised of the situation.”

Sherlock bares his teeth. “Surely you can’t afford to refuse my help-”

“Perhaps not.” Mycroft’s voice slices over Sherlock’s and John’s hand comes up, hovering at Sherlock’s wrist. Mycroft goes on, and it’s not a gentler tone, exactly, but something shifts. “But we cannot afford to lose - well. We must minimize the risks. Stay here, help the detective inspector with his case. I’m sure he’d appreciate the assistance.” Those sharp eyes cut to Greg, who finds himself nodding, just once. He doesn’t know much about this man, but he knows that look, has shared it with John often enough -  _ keep him busy. Keep him away.  _ Then Mycroft is gathering up the file he’d dropped and his umbrella leads the way out of the room. “I’ll take care of this, brother mine.”

Sherlock says nothing and Mycroft turns on the threshold. “Sherlock,” he says, and it’s that stone-steel tone again. Sherlock looks up, and there’s an expression in his pale eyes that Greg doesn’t know how to read. But Mycroft seems to understand. “I  _ will  _ take care of this,” he repeats, and he holds Sherlock’s gaze until the younger Holmes nods. It’s the easiest surrender Greg has ever witnessed between the brothers, but Mycroft vanishes from the doorway without even bothering to gloat.

Sherlock inhales sharply. “Lestrade. Out.”

“But - the case-”

“Leave the file. I’ll be in touch.” He stalks back to his armchair and flings himself into it, staring out the window. “Out. Now.”

Normally this would be the point where John interceded, but John just crosses over to his own chair and sits down, tea abandoned in the kitchen. Out of options, Greg says, “Well, all right then. I’ll see you two later,” and heads for the door. Neither John nor Sherlock reply.

He glances back at the top of the stairs. John is on his feet in front of Sherlock, who has his face buried in John’s sweater. John cards his fingers through the mess of Sherlock’s curls. “They’ll be all right,” Greg hears John mutter as he descends the stairs. “Mycroft will take care of them. They’ll be all right.” 

Not for the first time, Greg Lestrade stands outside 221 Baker Street and feels supremely out of his depth. Not for the first time, he glances down the road and glimpses a sleek black car turning out of sight.

****

Mrs. Hudson is not happy with him. 

“Oh, Detective Inspector! You look  _ terrible!” _

“Ta very much, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh no, dear, I just meant you look like you could use a rest! Why don’t you head on upstairs and I’ll bring you some biscuits, Lord knows that lot will have eaten the whole tray by now - ”

“Mrs. Hudson, that’s really not necessary, I won’t be staying - ” The door slams behind her and Greg blinks. “-long,” he finishes. “Ah, sod it."

He hauls himself up the stairs. She’s not wrong; he’s certainly not feeling his best. It’s been a long month; even with Sherlock helping marginally less grudgingly than usual, the work just does not stop. He wasn’t planning on visiting Baker Street for a while yet, but there’s a new serial poisoning case that’s taking precedence over the last one he gave Sherlock (animal mutilations in broad daylight, good Christ, people are mad) and sadly this is still a fact that he has to explain to his consulting detective. 

The door is open, and Greg is so tired that he walks halfway into the living room, shouting, “Oi, Sherlock - ” before he realizes why Mrs. Hudson needs to bring up more biscuits.

Sherlock is sitting in his usual chair, but there are two strangers on the sofa. The first one triggers every instinct that Greg has acquired during his long career in law enforcement. He’s not a large man - a few inches taller than than John, maybe - and the lines of his face and the silver threading his hair suggest he’s closer to Greg’s age. He sits like a man who’s been rather heavily injured not all that long ago; there are still violet splotches around his eye and beneath the open collar of his shirt, but there’s John Watson’s same soldier’s readiness in the coil of this stranger’s spine and something beyond that, hints of which Greg has felt around Mycroft sometimes, and in Moriarty’s time, around Sherlock. He knows all at once that this is a man who knew he was coming the instant he opened the door downstairs and had debated whether or not he needed killing before Greg had reached the landing. He meets the man’s iceberg eyes; they’re blazing with dry amusement, and Greg knows that this man has seen him reach this very conclusion and moreover, finds it hilarious that he didn’t get there sooner.

Because this is an expression he’s been seeing on Sherlock’s face for over a decade, Greg is able to glance past to the other stranger in the room. This man is younger and much smaller-made; he has dark, tousled hair, a pale, lean face, and he’s buried in the depths of a striped cardigan, watching Greg with strange, light eyes. Greg can’t help it; he falls back years, to another apartment, another strange lean man, only that man is no longer a stranger, and suddenly Greg knows. “Good Christ, there’s another one of you, isn’t there?”

“Very well done, Detective Inspector,” drawls Sherlock, and it’s strangely light on the mocking, almost happy. “That didn’t even take you the full ten minutes.”

“Oh, sod off, Sherlock,” says Greg, and inexplicably, against all odds, the weight of the last month lightens. Bloody Holmeses. Sherlock grins toothily and Greg turns to what is evidently the third Holmes brother. “You’ll be the youngest, then?”

“Call me Victor,” says the man, flashing a smile and God, how have the tabloids not found the resemblance already. “This is Bond,” adds Victor Holmes, nudging the shoulder of the man next to him. His smile softens. “James Bond.”

_ Ah,  _ thinks Greg, as James Bond, of MI6, unfolds himself from the sofa with all the leashed grace of a particularly rugged tiger. He’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to have recognized Her Majesty’s Finest, but then, 007 hasn’t exactly had a dull career. Not that he or Sherlock or John can talk, he adds silently as they shake hands. Bond’s smirk informs him that everyone in the room is aware of this. “Heard a lot about you, Detective Inspector,” rumbles Bond as they sit back down. 

“What, from Sherlock? He lies.”

Over Sherlock’s sputter of outrage and Victor Holmes’ snort of laughter, John says, “No, from me.” He walks into the room, carrying the tray of biscuits he must have fetched from Mrs. Hudson while Greg was distracted. Under cover of Sherlock diving for them, he nods to Greg. “See you’ve met the rest of the family. Not too much of a shock, then?”

“At this point?” Greg sits down in the chair they keep for clients as John ambles over to his own chair, conscious of Bond’s eyes on them. Sherlock and Victor are squabbling over the biscuits. “At this point, John, it’s pretty much what I’d have expected, if I’d known there was anything to expect.”

“And that, Detective Inspector, is why you have continued to survive here, against all odds and indeed, all reason.”

Greg whips around. Mycroft Holmes is standing in the doorway, umbrella in hand. John rolls his eyes and Bond straightens in his seat like a man who is used to flouting authority but nevertheless is making an exception. Sherlock, on the other hand, yowls like the ten-year-old he still is sometimes and Victor hisses at him, darting into Bond’s side with a fistful of biscuit fragments. Mycroft’s mouth twitches up at the corners. He looks fond and utterly relieved and Gregory Lestrade adds up the way Victor Holmes is trying to hide behind James Bond, who is wincing a little even as he picks up a teacup and aims it threateningly at Sherlock Holmes, and he remembers John Watson saying  _ Mycroft will take care of them. _ Greg feels fondness pool warm in his gut, and then Mycroft is swinging a kitchen chair around next to Greg and settling in to watch the chaos until such time as Sherlock notices and chucks them all out in a fit of pique. Seeing him mock wrestle John to get past him at his younger brother, seeing James Bond chuckle on the sofa, his craggy face infinitely content, Greg lets the last of his stress slip away.

The cases can wait. 


End file.
